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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843450">Blueming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_tea_blue_pens/pseuds/black_tea_blue_pens'>black_tea_blue_pens</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, IU (Musician)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Claustrophobia, Cyberpunk, Flower Language, Fluff, Goat, Good Day, IU MV AU, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, KPop AU, Loneliness, M/M, Sick Simon, You and I, above the time, angst with happy ending, blueming, doll simon, friday - Freeform, through the night, watchmaker baz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:53:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_tea_blue_pens/pseuds/black_tea_blue_pens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I looked at the grey-eyed man once again, but he was focused on his work and did not notice me. His eyes looked unbearably sad, and his face made me feel nostalgic. I don’t know how long I stared at him, but eventually the lights went off and I went to sleep. By the time light came again, the slit was not there anymore.</em><br/> </p><p>Simon is a doll, trapped in a paper house.<br/>Baz is a watchmaker, trapped in his memories.<br/>Both of them dream of finding each other again.</p><p>AU inspired on IU's MVs and songs.</p><p>  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLVUg43K_U0PMKHJVSG6G6r_XWKT-JOacu">Full YouTube playlist</a><br/><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1umClk9aWaXW233hB3mRLY?si=AVNDBecZRyq7k9z9B1EhMA">Full Spotify playlist</a></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Carry On Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Above the time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Español available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752483">Blueming</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_tea_blue_pens/pseuds/black_tea_blue_pens">black_tea_blue_pens</a>
        </li>


    </ul><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3Fwdnij49o">Above the Time</a> by IU.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>White, wrinkled walls. White, wrinkled furniture. Some ink black words, here and there. Some colour, on me, on my clothes.</p><p>And paper everywhere.</p><p>I get up, still lingering in the dream I had last night. I was made of flesh, not wood. I was with someone else. I was happy.</p><p>Dim light is filtering through the white walls, casting soft shadows. Another day starts. Today I’m wearing a sailor suit, golden and blue. At least it is not white, as the previous one was. I try to open the door, outlined in black, not quite as real as I would like it to be. It is still closed under lock and key, and I cannot even see the hinges.</p><p>I try the window next, just like every morning. It is the same thing. Despairingly faux.</p><p>I head to the ladder that leads to the attic. As thin and wobbly as everything else. I climb it slowly, carefully. Last time I fell, I spent three days with a wrinkled piece of paper instead of a ladder. Three full days without climbing to the attic. Days in the paper house were all agonizingly similar, but those three had been the worst. Why, how and who fixed the ladder is something I stopped thinking about a long time ago.</p><p>When I arrive, I see everything exactly as it was yesterday. An empty room, except for the dried flower on the floor, big and delicate and colourful. I check the joints of the ceiling first. Nothing. Not even a slight slit. Then the flower. Softest of purples for the petals, yellow for the stamens. This one is new. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice from the past emerges. <em> Flowers have meanings, Simon </em>. There’s something important there. Something about the stories flowers tell. I just can’t remember. I couldn’t yesterday and I probably won’t be able tomorrow either. Right here, right now, all of them mean hope anyway.</p><p>I walk around it. It is too big to bring downstairs and last time I tried, the flower broke. I don’t know if whoever or whatever changes it noticed because they had already changed the flower the next morning, but that’s something that happens often. I sit on the floor, as white and wrinkled as everything else, and take in the flower. Every detail, every part of it. Every line and every spot.</p><p>It’s been forever since something changed in my routine, and I always end up going back to that day, the only day something changed. <em> Really </em> changed.</p><p>When I arrived at the attic that day, there was a slit open. Something that had never happened before. I realized the ceiling was a different piece, and whatever or whoever changed the flowers must have moved it. I looked through it, at what was beyond, and… it was yet another room. I guess I was expecting the Sun, just for once. For a change.</p><p>At least this room wasn’t like mine. This one was all colourful, made of stone in every shade of grey. The walls were covered with clocks, including some cuckoos, and some paintings representing landscapes. I saw a man’s face, grey eyes with dark eyebrows frowned in concentration as he looked at something I didn’t get to see. I stared at him for the longest time, trying to find out what he was working at, but the angle was bad. I ended up looking around instead. There was a train moving in a railway on the floor, one lap after another, after another. A goat moving around the room slowly. It looked old and calm. There were books and the papers, carefully stored in the shelves and stacked on the table.</p><p>I looked at the grey-eyed man once again, but he was focused on his work and did not notice me. His eyes looked unbearably sad, and his face made me feel nostalgic. I don’t know how long I stared at him, but eventually the lights went off and I went to sleep. By the time light came again, the slit was not there anymore.</p><p>It has not opened again. I have stayed within the white walls, reading over and over again the black ink on the walls since then. “<em>W</em><em>hen we finally meet/The moon is getting full with our wishes…” </em> it makes no sense, no connection of one verse with the next. No intention. But it is the only thing beyond white paper, wrinkles on the wall and a flower. It is something to occupy my mind. Something I can let myself think about without falling in a loop of sadness and despair. That, and grey, sad, focused eyes.</p><p>When the light finally disappears, all of a sudden as every other day, I fall asleep immediately.</p><p>I dream of a stone-walled room, walls covered by clocks. Of another person next to me, someone I know. But the dream won’t let me see his face. I dream of rain, and of dancing with that person. Of picking flowers and drying them inside old book pages. And I dream of a clock, of laughter and smiles. I remember everything when I wake up, I review the dream, scene by scene, as I check the door and the windows and climb to the attic. Same orange light, same white walls, same black ink. A different flower, or maybe not. A different suit, or maybe not. I try not to think as I go through the day in order to avoid the crushing feeling of despair, lingering on dreams, wondering who that person is. Not daring to dream with the possibility of reuniting again. On the outside, clocks probably tick and a train probably choos, but I cannot hear it. I just dream and then remember the dream as if it meant something. As if it was a clue to decipher.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sora here! I'm writing this around a week before it's posted, but I'll be on a trip when the time comes so I prefer to leave everything tied and nice. I've wanted for a loooong time to write something based on IU's MVs. I've been a fan of hers for a long time. And finally the time has come, using as an excuse the Carry On Big Bang.</p><p>The art for the chapter was made by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/beckettillustrations/">Alex from @beckettillustrations</a>, and IT'S AMAZING AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!!!</p><p>Thank you so much to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire">@Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire</a> for beta reading the fic and to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AoiHerondale/pseuds/AoiHerondale">@AoiHerondale</a> for dealing with my writer crises u.u</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. You and I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_iQRO5BdCM">You and I</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>I wake up and look around. After so many years of living surrounded by clocks, I’ve become so used to the ticking I’m deaf to it unless I pay attention. They are everywhere.</p><p>I get dressed and then get to the ground floor. I put a lace around the goat before heading to the market through the back door of the house. Vegetables, milk, eggs, some fresh cheese. I pick some flowers on my way back. I go to the front, where the shop is, leave the goat behind with some food, clean the dust before switching the door sign to <em> open </em>. It is flashy, all the colours of the rainbow. Nothing to do with the wooden tones of practically everywhere else. I can’t say I like it but I can’t bring myself to change it either. I replace the withered flowers on the table with fresh ones, sit behind the counter and start working on the clock I’m repairing, a watch with a short strap. A little girl gave it to me yesterday for the second time. I could make it work again, but it will probably stop again after a while, as it did last time. So I keep searching for the problem. I examine the mechanism, tear it apart, clean it and put it back together, still not sure about what’s wrong with it.</p><p>Someone enters the shop. A young pair, two women. They hold each other’s hand as soon as they enter the store. I don’t smile. Simon would.</p><p>“Hello, may I help you?”</p><p>“Hi, we just moved together and we were looking for some decoration for the kitchen…”</p><p>I show them around. One of them likes almost every model, but the other one keeps discarding them with a gesture. They finally agree on an olive wooden one with roman numbers on it, and a figurine representing a horse. They let each other’s hand go as they exit the store.</p><p>I spend the rest of the morning going back and forth between reparations and new creations, avoiding the accounting books because I don’t like the results. Eventually, I find out the problem with the child’s watch. One of the pieces is slightly eroded, just enough that from time to time it will dislocate and the clock will stop working. I change it. If the girl does not appear in two days, I will bring her the watch myself.</p><p>I cook lunch with the fresh groceries, and wait in the shop for a few more hours reading a book. When I’m about to close, the bell door rings. The little girl has arrived.</p><p>“What are you reading? It looks heavy.”</p><p>I close the book and show it to her.</p><p>“Does it have any drawings?”</p><p>I open it. The pages are full of diagrams and sketches of machines.</p><p>“I don’t understand it.”</p><p>“It’s a little difficult. Come here, I fixed your watch.”</p><p>I give it to her.</p><p>“It should not break anymore. I fixed the piece that was broken. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize the first time.”</p><p>As soon as she pays and leaves, I close the shop and take the book with me before heading to the attic.</p><p>The windows are boarded up, a single ray of light coming from a crack. There is a wall covered with clocks, and another one covered with books. A toy train stays still in its circular railway.</p><p>I let the goat in and turn on the light, a single bulb next to the table, projecting hot, orange light everywhere. I connect the toy train on the railway and go back to the project that lays before me. I can hear myself letting out frustrated sighs every time something doesn’t turn out as I want, and I keep glancing at the paper house in the corner of the table. I can see I’m making progress, the machine slowly taking form, more and more similar to the one in my book. But it’s slow and I don’t even know if it will work. Never in my life have I felt this insecure about my craftsmanship. Mechanisms are supposed to be trustworthy.</p><p> </p><p>I’m sleepy. The ray coming from the window is not the Sun’s anymore, but the Moon’s. I wake up, turn off the light and guide the goat out of the room. Then I open one of the books and take a dry flower from between the pages. I approach the paper house, open the ceiling and retrieve the one that was there before leaving a new one. </p><p><em> There, I made a wooden figure of me, so you’re not so sad when I’m not there </em>.</p><p>I rolled my eyes when he said that, oblivious. The thought of Simon not being here seemingly impossible. Oh, had I only known.</p><p>I touch with my fingers the square opening that leads to the first floor, but I don’t lift it. I still don’t dare open the main room of dollhouse, see the doll in its bed, still, unmoving. The bronze curls, the cheeks dotted with black moles, the sky blue eyes. So painfully accurate.</p><p>I sigh and place the ceiling back carefully before leaving the room.</p><p>I close the door behind me and go downstairs, ignoring the second floor spare room that remains closed. In days like this, I feel haunted by memories and opening that door would only make it worse. I know what’s behind by heart. The chair, the wardrobe, the bed. Simon lying in it, breathing but barely, heartbeat faint and slow, getting thinner day by day.</p><p>I feed the goat, pondering the possibility of kicking it out or returning it to Ebb. I have no obligation to keep what probably is the worst birthday gift in the history of mankind. It’s Simon’s and I opposed to letting the animal in from the very beginning.</p><p>But then again, if he returns… No. <em> When </em> he returns, he will want the goat there. So I keep it fed and clean, because that’s what lovers with a chronic inability to overcome do.</p><p>The worst part is always dinner. Sitting in front of Simon’s old seat, eating in silence, memories seem unavoidable, and so are tears. I finish as soon as possible and head to bed, hoping tomorrow will be easier. It probably won’t.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The song in the title, You and I, is the one that gave me the idea for the whole fanfic! (And it happens to be the first IU song I ever listened to, together with The story only I didn't know). This chapter introduces Baz and... more melancholy I guess. This fic is very melancholic however you look at it, but IU's songs usually are so... I guess I'm doing something right? Anyways, I hope you like it so far!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Good Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeqdYqsrsA0&amp;ab_channel=1theK%28%EC%9B%90%EB%8D%94%EC%BC%80%EC%9D%B4%29">Good Day</a></p><p>I don't know if you have checked all the tags. If you did, remember that there was a chapter tagged with implied/referenced homophobia? It's this one. It's a short part, so I guess it should be okay, but I thought I'd mention it just in case. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>I wake up with some heavy feeling in my chest. This dream was not like the previous ones. It was nitid and clear, more of a memory than a dream. As if something was different. However, when I wake up everything around me is the same as always. Same white, wrinkled walls. Same cryptid black ink. I know what this feeling is. Despair.</p><p>I think I was happy in my dream. There was a café, full of fairy lights and dried flowers and pastel colours. I was sitting at a table when this boy came in. The same man I saw that time when the ceiling broke: Grey eyes, sad smile. He sat at the table next to me, and I felt nervous, stealing looks in his direction, until I met his eyes. I had the sudden urge to talk to him. And I did.</p><p>Then the scene changed, but not the scenery, and I was with the grey eyed boy, and we were talking at the coffee shop, then we were going on a thousand different dates, taking walks, giving flowers to each other, kissing, smiling… And he didn’t look sad but cheerful.</p><p>And then we were at a clock shop, and he was looking at me angrily and I was surprised and somehow confused.</p><p>“Did you talk to the neighbours? What did they tell you?”</p><p>“Nothing really, I… It’s mostly things I hear at the coffee shop. Nothing new.”</p><p>“Please tell me.”</p><p>“Mostly good things! That you can fix anything, it looks like magic.”</p><p>“And that’s it?”</p><p>“And to stay away from you beyond professional matters.”</p><p>“See? They won’t let me be. This is why I don’t want to…”</p><p>“Baz, I know what they mean by that and it’s a little too late. We are together already and I’m not leaving anyway.”</p><p>“Did you tell them?”</p><p>“I didn’t want to worsen your situation.”</p><p>“I’m more worried about the pressure they might put on you.”</p><p>“Don’t be. This is not what I wanted to talk about. Is it true that you can make magic?”</p><p>Baz relaxed a little. He put a neutral face, more scepticism than anger.</p><p>“You know I can’t. It’s all a matter of effort and ability. Science. Mechanics. It’s all in the books.”</p><p>“Then, do you think you can fix me?”</p><p>Baz felt silent.</p><p>“It’s fine. I’m sorry I asked. I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”</p><p>More memories. I was with Baz, sitting by the door of the shop. It was getting dark. We were carving wood, Baz’s piece more complex and delicate. He stopped from time to time, correcting mine, giving me tips. And I would get so easily distracted. By the thread of hair that fell over his face, or by the way his lips curved in concentration. I would keep stopping and kissing his cheek. Some people passed by, and I tried to focus back on my piece of wood. I greeted them, but they didn’t answer. I shrugged and went back to his carving.</p><p> </p><p>As I remember the dream, I feel like crying but dolls can’t.</p><p>“Baz was his name.”</p><p>I try to open the windows and the door, and then climb the stairs to the flower and sit next to it, still reminiscing on the dream.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sora here!</p><p>I'm so glad that I finished this story during the summer because I'm waaay too tired to even think of posting anything. So much to do and I manage everything but still, so tired. (Internships and classes at the same time was not as good an idea as I thought). Setting asde my irl rants, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! (Please tell me if you did and make me a happy stressed student).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Through the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BzYnNdJhZQw&amp;ab_channel=1theK%28%EC%9B%90%EB%8D%94%EC%BC%80%EC%9D%B4%29">Through the Night</a> by IU.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>
  <span>My hands are trembling as I put the last gear in its place and close the lid. I did it. I created the machine that will fix Simon. That will bring his soul back from wherever it is and return him to a living being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn it on, try the buttons and the levers. Everything seems to be working properly but I won’t really know until I try it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I check one of the clocks: Two in the morning. I should probably get some sleep, but everything is ready and I’ve been patient enough for the last two years. Sleep can wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remove the boards from the window, letting the starlight in. Clouds are coming, but they are far away and the night is cold but clear. Natural light hits the paper house and suddenly it looks ghostly. I lift the ceiling, pick the flower I left last time and throw it away. The black ink on the walls is starting to fade away, cheap and smudged. Simon made this dollhouse from a paper I was about to throw away. It has the lyrics of the song that was playing when we met for the first time, at the coffee shop. But I can’t even remember the melody.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk downstairs and stop in front of the closed door. I take a deep breath and open it. Inside, there’s only a bed under the window, Simon sleeping in it, thinner than he’s ever been. I lift Simon with the goat’s help, bring him upstairs and sit him in the tight space of the machine. I turn on the buttons, praying for it to work for the first time in my life. It’s probably useless. God won’t be in favour of this. I regulate the levers, in order for it to be strong enough to work, but not enough to damage Simon. And I close the door. It should take at least a full day to finish the whole process, unless my calculations are wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m sleepy, yet unable to sleep. I give up by sunrise, hang a sign saying that I’m on break at the door of the shop and take the clock I’m making with me upstairs. I take a look at the machine. Nothing seems to have changed, but the gears are slowly and steadily moving. I sit at the table and carve the wood to make the ornaments of the clock, something easy that will keep me distracted. I try not to look at Simon, locked in the cab, as hours pass and I resist sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>
  <span>I wake up locked in a wooden box. Not again. Please. Not again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Changing a paper prison for a wooden one is not an option. I prepare to bump my shoulder against the wall in order to break it, but then I see the handle. A real one. I turn it and the door opens. I look around. The attic, the clocks, the train, the white paper house. It’s the same room I peeked at that day. The same room that keeps appearing in my dreams. But something’s different. The white paper house is there in a corner, small and fragile and wrinkled as ever, and next to it, sitting on the chair, head resting between his arms, the grey eyed boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s sleeping on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk towards him and lift a hand; a hand made of skin and bones. No more wood and rope. I rest it on Baz’s shoulder and he opens his grey eyes and looks at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz stands up, sending the chair to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It worked. It’s you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz hugs me and I hug him back, taking in reality, little by little. Realizing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baz, you did it, you fixed me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m smiling. I feel proud, happy, human, as Baz kisses me all over his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should go for a walk,” I say. I can’t wait to see the sky. “It’s a beautiful night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you feel well enough?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll rely on you.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This story is coming to an end, with only one chapter left.<br/>Through the Night is the only song I chose because of the lyrics instead of the video itself. The link at the beginning has subs in English.<br/>I don't have much more to say (my life is hectic lately, completely different compared with the mood of this fanfic). As always, I hope you are enjoying this ^^</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Friday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiVmQZwJhsA&amp;ab_channel=1theK%28%EC%9B%90%EB%8D%94%EC%BC%80%EC%9D%B4%29">Friday</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a cold night and the two boys are walking slowly down the market street. Only their steps and their voices can be heard, quiet and cheerful. They whisper to each other, words of longing and reencounter. They tell each other how life was without the other. Simon shivers with cold and Baz throws his arm around him, worried. Simon makes a joke and they both laugh. It starts to snow and they run to hide under a rooftop. They kiss, then kiss again. Baz holds Simon tighter, trying to stop the shivers.</p><p>“I’m scared,” Baz says.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be. You accomplished the impossible.”</p><p>“It’s too soon. Maybe we should wait, see if you are… If you’re going to stay this time.”</p><p>Simon looks down. Then back up.</p><p>“I won’t leave again. I know. I really won’t; it’s impossible now. Nothing you ever fixed broke again.”</p><p>“I hope you’re right.”</p><p>Simon hugs him.</p><p>“Me too.” He kisses Baz again, as a reassurance of his words, and slowly they walk back to their home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sora here!</p><p>You probably have noticed that, after a full fanfic on first person, this last chapter is in third person. That's because the song that inspired it (linked at the beginning) is in third person, and I wanted to reflect that video since I really like its aesthetics.</p><p>By the way, with this fanfic, what I’ve tried is to draw an aesthetic, a feeling, more than tell a story. I don’t know if I have succeeded, I don’t know if I made you feel something, but I sure enjoyed writing this. Thank you for staying until the end!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SORA HERE!<br/>EDIT: (05/01/2021). DISCLAIMER: I don't own a goat, I never have and I don't have the slightest idea of how to take care of them. Don't take this fic as reference. I don't know if you can leash a goat and take it out for a walk, and I seriously doubt that it's adequate to keep them locked in a house or to use them as beasts of burden. This fic was written with artistic purposes but in no way with informative purposes.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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